


Checkmate

by sapphorror



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Blood, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eye Trauma, Gore, Guro, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphorror/pseuds/sapphorror
Summary: Ciel Phantomhive will do anything to avoid being put in check.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> my sebaciel fics just keep getting worse and worse, huh
> 
> cliff, consider the title a gift from me to you
> 
> also, while there isn't technically speaking any sex in this fic, the events at the end are definitely erotically charged. Hence, the noncon and ship tag.
> 
> Ciel is whatever age you want him to be, although I'm not sure how much that'll change in this case.

_I’ll give you a three-day headstart._

Sebastian’s words, carefully enunciated around teeth grown long and sharp with hunger. It hadn’t been supposed to be like this—Ciel was supposed to get his revenge, and then it would be _over,_ in one final blood-filled waltz _._ But Sebastian hadn’t tired of him just yet, or maybe he had, and this was merely a particularly twisted final torture. After all, Ciel didn’t care much about his life or his soul, was ready enough to offer those up to his demon on a silver platter, as the contract stipulated. But Sebastian had proposed a game, and Ciel Phantomhive didn’t lose.

That simple truth echoed and bounced around the desolate kitchen of the townhouse (it was funny, how you only appreciated overenthusiastic princes and their selfless butlers once they were gone), slid down the shaft of the knife in his hands, settled at the cool point pressed against his eyelid. The knife was a thick thing meant for carving through cooked flesh, big and unwieldy in his small hands, and he wondered if he should select a smaller one. But if he did that he’d have to get up, and if he got up he’d lose his nerve.

It was an easy enough conclusion to make. There was no point in running as long as the contract stood—there was no hiding place where Sebastian wouldn’t sense him, and no distance the demon couldn’t cross. And the contract was the mark, the mark gave it _power._ A sacrifice, a wish, and a covenant. That was the deal. 

_Ciel Phantomhive didn’t lose._

Ciel wished he could say he drove the knife forward right then, without preamble, ended it one swift thrust. He didn’t. Instead, it was more of a wobble, a minute jerk of his wrist that drew a pin-prick of blood from his lower eyelid. He felt himself blink, involuntarily, and that was another scratch. Tears welled, obscuring the looming point of the knife.

He adjusted his grip, wrapping a second hand around the handle. Blood trickled warm over his cheek, droplets gathering in the corner of his eye, mixing with tears to cast a pink film across his vision. He didn’t want to wreck his face too much, didn’t want to spill more blood or create more wounds than necessary. He had to slide the knife upwards, between the lids. He tilted it, fumbling for the angle, and felt something like a caught eyelash as the tip scraped along his cornea.

The pain came delayed, then blinding. His vision went watery and red-tinged, kitchen colors blurring into a pink-gray wash. His breath hitched, wet and childish, and he thrust the knife forward before he had a chance to blink.

If the scratch had felt at first like an eyelash, then this was a splash of bleach. It was easy to imagine Sebastian with the container in hand, shirtsleeves rolled up as he smiled his perfect smile, brandished the foul-smelling liquid, and _poured._ Ciel’s wrists juddered to a stop, shaking and then alarmingly still, as pain froze his face, froze his _breath._ Sebastian’s name bubbled to his lips, automatic, and if he hadn’t had a knife sticking out of his eye he might have laughed at how _pathetic_ he had to be that even now, _that_ was what he called out for in the face of pain. Gathering the last threads of his self-preservation, he swallowed it back.

It was—strange. Everything was impossibly still, and his hands were steadier than they’d ever been in his life. The pain waned, waxed, a distant pulse that suddenly seemed secondary to his racing thoughts or the warm heat enveloping his face. Tears dripped from his unharmed eye, and slow as a frightened rabbit, he cracked it open. He stared down the length of the shaft, to his fingers white and tight-knuckled on the handle. There was too much of it. Even now, only the tip of the knife had gone in.

He was sure he had to push it further. But not too far—if he was incautious, he could stab right through and into his brain. Though maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. If he died, this little game of theirs would end in a stalemate, right?

Of course, he hated stalemates.

Experimentally, he pushed the knife forward, just the tiniest fraction, just to see, and the stillness slipped away like a stripped holland cover. The world lurched, or maybe it was just him, a crack splitting down the middle as the knife cut into something it shouldn’t. Agony spread from a place so deep in his head he hadn’t known it had been possible to hurt, the wet heat on his cheeks flaring into an inferno, and he knew he screamed only from the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls.

The knife slipped downwards, and his eyelid split, sending a fresh wave of warmth down his face. Blood and vitreous dripped together in thick rivulets, some surely smearing along his jaw and falling to the floor, the rest gathering at his lips and filling his open, panting mouth with viscous salt and copper. He choked on bile and pushed the knife back in, uncaring of the way the shaft’s far end sliced into his cheek, uncaring of what delicate things he might be carving into. His vision was black, and he couldn’t tell whether his other eye was open or closed.

The agony that bloomed was impossibly deep, so deep he swore he must’ve carved into his soul itself. And in a way, he had, hadn’t he? That had been the whole point, to rend through the threads tying him and Sebastian together. He could only hope, through the blood and the black and the indescribable pain, that it worked.

His hands shuddered, no longer under his control, as he twisted the knife, or tried to, dragging it up through whatever pulpy remains of his eye there were, intent on turning the mark to slurry. It was clumsy, and the knife cut once again into the flesh of his cheek and eyelid, this time down to bone. He screamed as metal scraped against cartilage and fell back all at once, sweat-slick fingers losing their grip on the handle. The knife fell to the floor with a metallic clatter he barely heard and he followed, landing on his side with a heavy thump, succeeded by a steady beat of bloody drips.

“Oh, God,” he panted, the word heavy and unfamiliar in his mouth. It was the first time he’d uttered the Lord’s name, in vain or otherwise, since his eye had been carved through the first time, by a contract rather than a knife. He choked, spitting up blood and saliva and bile. “Sebastian.”

He didn’t even realize he’d broken until the thing’s voice cut the silence.

“My, my. I certainly didn’t expect you to go to such lengths.”

Ciel’s head lolled weakly in the direction it echoed from, and he tried in vain to see through his one remaining eye. His vision was nothing more than a wet smear, tinged with a nauseous cast of gray. But Sebastian was a shadow, blacker than black, and though indistinct the sight of his darkness was as inescapable as it always was.

“Of course, I should have, shouldn’t I?” There was a smile in Sebastian’s voice, the sharp-cornered one filled with teeth and malice. Fabric rustled, and Ciel realized his butler must’ve knelt at his side. “Anything to win.”

Warm hands settled on Ciel’s shoulders, pulling him up, setting him back against something solid he was too far gone to bother identifying. “It, it hasn’t been—three days. It _hasn’t_.”

“It hasn’t,” Sebastian agreed, indulgent. “But when you call my name, I am bound to come. Or had you forgotten?”

He tipped Ciel’s face up, too gentle. Ciel’s vision was starting to blend into something coherent—still sickly and blurred, but enough to see Sebastian’s white razor grin, the crimson pulse of his eyes, the shadow outlining his nose. Pale face twisted in a leer of hunger. Ciel squeezed his eye shut.

A gloved hand swiped through the gore on his cheek. Sebastian tsked, just like he did whenever Ciel or his servants created another unnecessary chore for him. “What a mess you’ve made, little master.”

Sebastian’s hand dropped away, leaving a cool patch in the sea of hot agony. The pain now was fuzzy, indistinct, the gush from the center of his skull indistinguishable from what ebbed from the bloody tatters of his cheek. 

Sebastian’s fingers touched back down, pressing towards the core of it, and Ciel gasped a sob, sharp and sniffling. The hand was _bare,_ Ciel could feel the soft pads of fingers and bony jut of knuckles as they cut through the tracks of blood. For all their inappropriate intimacy, Sebastian had never touched him like _this_ , not naked skin on naked skin, and Ciel could hardly believe he had ever found those hands too warm as they had been, shielded by cotton gloves—like this, they burned hotter than the blood steadily coursing over them.

Sebastian’s fingers slid up to the shreds of Ciel’s eyelid, pushing along the dripping strips of flesh. His touch wasn’t gentle, and Ciel could feel the weaker tatters tearing away like scraps of wet parchment, fresh blood coming in spurts. The fingers pressed harder, probing, nudging speculatively along the half-exposed curve of his eye socket.

“Tell me, young master, which hurt worse—gouging your own eye out with a kitchen knife, or me carving my mark into your soul? Ah, no need to answer. I’m merely impressed. I can’t imagine many other humans would think of mutilating themselves to break a deal—still less that they’d have the resolve to go through with it, all to spite me. And the sheer dishonesty of it…why, it’s almost demonic itself.” Sebastian laughed, a jack-o-lantern’s death rattle. “If any human could cheat their way out of a Faustian contract, it’d be you, darling.”

One push, and those considering fingers drove into the mess of his eye.

“Unfortunately, no human can.”

Ciel recoiled, a violent snap through every joint, Sebastian’s name rising high and broken to his lips. Sebastian took it in stride, fingers curving forward even as Ciel’s head banged against whatever was behind him, no escape. They sliced easily through the blood and chunks of vitreous, reached deep into the empty cavern and lit up a whole new inferno of hurt. 

Without thinking, Ciel’s hands jerked up, clawed uselessly at the wrist of the hand violating him. There wasn’t a second of hesitation in Sebastian’s motions as his other hand materialized to pry Ciel’s digits away. Ice rushed through Ciel’s veins, counter to the blaze of his skin, and he waited for the crunch of his own bone as Sebastian enveloped both hands in his. But none came.

The hold was gentle, the reassuring squeeze of a parent or lover. Restraining, but kindly. “Shh,” Sebastian said, as if Ciel were a distressed infant, and Ciel sagged back, choking on sobs. He felt rubbery and boneless, and struggle was useless. Sebastian’s hand was warm and tight around his.

He could feel Sebastian pushing around the pulpy mess of his eye, gathering it in thick globs and scraping them out onto his cheek. He was as thorough as he was in rendering the countless halls of the manor spotless, mapping every point within the gore-drenched socket. At one point he hooked his fingers downward, to massage the places where bone had been exposed. Each scrape along wet flesh sent fresh torrents of blood pouring over Ciel, his cheek and jaw, into his gasping mouth and onto the kitchen floor.

But Sebastian, as always, took things a step farther. A considering _hmm,_ resonant as birdsong, and the point of his fingers found a new angle, pressing deeper with purpose. Deeper than even the knife had gone, Ciel was sure of it, sure also that he felt the give of something delicate and vital. The soft tips of those fingers found something behind whatever last remaining wall had ruptured and bore their weight down. New pain exploded, bright as faulty fireworks, a runny pulse from Ciel’s core. The fingers burned, hotter than the inside of him, hotter than whatever fires raged in Hell. He screamed, but his wheezing breath only strangled the sound.

“It was useless, obviously—the Faustian contract would hardly be worth much if it could be nullified by such temporal means. But it’s amazing, how far you’ll go just to escape being put in check. Of course, you’ve always been below other humans, haven’t you? A dirtier liar, a cleverer cheat. No stoop too low if it means getting what you want. Too greedy and too smart for your own good.” All at once, Sebastian’s fingers withdrew, leaving Ciel to gasp in relief and emptiness. A string of gore spattered a hot stripe down his face, stretched from that prodding hand. “It’s what I like about you.”

Madness possessed Ciel. The undamaged side of his face prickled, as if asleep, and he could barely feel his eyelids well enough to open them. His vision was hazy, like water clouded by swirls of paint, but Sebastian’s visage was clear enough, his elegant fingers stained by red. In a movement, he swallowed them, down to the knuckle, sucking away the mess. Like an animal.

He pulled his fingers back, washed pink and spit-stained. Licked them again, his tongue too long, then licked ineffectively at the scarlet smears on his lips. Eyes red as volcanic embers wandered from his hand to Ciel’s ruined face, and Ciel _must_ have been going mad, must’ve been conjuring phantoms from the darkest corners of his mind, to imagine that Sebastian looked almost _sad._

“It’s what I’ll miss about you, too.”

Then, Sebastian kissed him. In a manner of speaking.

His lips closed over Ciel’s eyesocket, wet and devouring. A convulsive shudder ran down to Ciel’s toes at the damp, breathing heat, at the obscene _suck_ as Sebastian swallowed the bits of him down. He burned straight to his soul, and it was like he was staring blindly into the pit of Hell itself.

Sebastian’s tongue flickered across the remains of his lids, quick and thin as a snake’s. Ciel whimpered at the sting, though it was nothing compared to Sebastian’s fingers pushing into him, tearing through flesh. There was something almost gentle about this gluttony, even as Sebastian inhaled his dripping gore, even as his tongue adjusted course, slid over his eyelid and _inside._

Oh, God. It didn’t hurt.

Or at least, not in a way that mattered, in the face of an eye already torn to pieces, the excess scooped out by cruel fingers. The muscle pushing inside him was flexible, filling, and felt hot enough to cauterize. It pressed into every crevice, contorting and reforming into impossible shapes to explore him entirely, and Ciel felt as if his soul was being touched right now, sucked out through the gape of his eye, dragged out in the symphonic wet suction of Sebastian’s hunger. It lengthened inside him, growing far longer than any human tongue, than any snake’s, touched those tender deep places that Sebastian’s fingers had carved out, went further until he was one with Ciel’s pulse. Ciel’s fingers trembled in Sebastian’s grip, no longer reassured. He couldn’t imagine a greater violation.

He knew, also, that he was soon to experience one.

And then the tongue was gone, withdrawn with a wet pop, leaving Ciel’s empty eye frozen and aching. Red smeared Sebastian’s mouth, bits of vitreous clinging to his chin— _disordered,_ dirty as an animal, not Ciel’s perfect butler at all. His eyes were a sharper scarlet than the blood on his face and had a haze in them that reminded Ciel of humans drunk on too much champagne. Sebastian, it seemed, was drunk on _him._

“You know,” the demon said, voice soft as rose petals, “I was going to be gentle.”

Without warning, Sebastian rose, flawless grace returned. His hand dropped Ciel’s, leaving stiff fingers to tremble and grasp unthinkingly at the butler’s tailcoat. Sebastian didn’t say a word, just swept Ciel up into his arms as he had done so many times before. Ciel pressed his face to the black-clothed chest and bled into him.

“Come now, young master, it’s time for dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Twitter, @sapphxrror, where I talk more about hurting Ciel, among other things. If you think there's anything I failed to tag, let me know, because I am honestly beyond unsure with this one.
> 
> PSA: Guro writers enjoy comments just as much as the rest <3 thanks for reading


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